


Champion Sire

by ThereWillBeCubes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abuse, Blood, Torture, Violence, noncon, will add tags as i add chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8049427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereWillBeCubes/pseuds/ThereWillBeCubes
Summary: Shiro's impressed them, he's proven his strength as the Champion. The Galra won't stop at one.





	1. The Act

-

 

He can already hear them chanting, cheering, as he’s marched to the arena gates.

_Champion._

Shiro didn’t understand what that meant; Champion of what? Not the people filling the stands of the arena, the ones that cried for blood; not the prisoners that saw only his violent façade, his apparent desire for that same blood. Not Zarkon, to whom he was little more than a slave.

Champion of the arena? But it was meaningless. He would never win freedom, not for his prowess. All he won were more enemies to face. And a weapon with which to face them.

Today he wasn’t against any one kind of beast, but Galra soldiers, one at a time.

“Disgraced weaklings,” Sendak states, coming to stand beside him, “here to prove themselves to Lord Zarkon.”

His weaponised hand clamps onto Shiro’s shoulder.

“The only way to do that, is to defeat you, my Champion.”

Sendak’s Champion. His eye glows red in the low light, smile wide with excitement.

“They’re giving me reject soldiers to fight, Commander Sendak?”

“I think the witch is hoping to see what that arm can do against Galra.”

“What’s the point if they’re not soldiers?” Shiro asks despite himself. If he was going to fight Galra, if he was going to spill their blood, he wanted it to be of those that caused such suffering. Instead, he would simply be doing Zarkon’s work, ridding the ranks of the weak.

Sendak laughs, a cruel sound.

“True. Perhaps they want to thin out the cells.”

Shiro steps forward, as if impatient. Sendak holds him back; and licks his lips when Shiro turns to glare at him.

“A few more moments, Champion,” he purrs.

A loud horn sounds, brassy and deep, and the first galra soldier steps into the arena, wearing light armour, and holding only a blade.

“Leave none alive, my Champion,” Sendak orders, and his hand releases Shiro’s shoulder.

 -

He doesn’t.

Some of them were barely adults, so much smaller and skinnier than the galra he was used to, utterly inexperienced on a real field of battle, though their zeal and bloodlust was genuine, their young voices screaming for Shiro’s blood.

The ones that were adults were simply hopeless fighters, slow or clumsy or just plain weak. It wasn’t a match, it was a bloodbath.

The crowd loved it. Every time he cut one down, they would cheer, in unison, those two syllables-

_Cham-pion! Cham-pion!_

Beating the floor with their feet, clapping, until the next challenger appeared. Then they would break apart, howling incoherently for Shiro to bring them another kill.

He had to go along with it. Roar with them, wipe the blood off his face, his weapon on his fallen enemy’s clothes. Champion was an act, and this was his stage.

And Shiro despised every second of it, wondering if any of his opponents saw through his facade, saw the real, terrified man underneath. Probably not. They were too busy trying to hurt him.

But there was a moment, that one moment where time seemed to stop around them. Just the two of them in that window, for what felt like an age. When their faces would spasm and solidify into pure, primal fear. Their eyes staring at him, through him, filled with terror.

The moment they had realised they were about to die.

And in those moments, Shiro let his act slip, to show them how truly sorry he was it that had come to this.

But only for them to see.

Sendak is waiting for him, as he always seemed to now, and always with a smile.

“Excellent, Champion,” Sendak greeted, hand touching Shiro’s face. He wipes it, smearing still-warm blood across Shiro’s cheek, before cupping the back of his neck.

“They we-were no match, for _me,_ C-Commander Sendak,” Shiro replies, breathing short and sharp, blood still hot with adrenaline.

Sendak brings the hand up to taste. His smile is almost fond.

“How did it feel, using the arm?” he asks lowly, roughly, “to kill them with your hands?”

“Easy,” Shiro replied, the most truthful answer he could give.

Sendak laughs. Behind him, approach prison guards to take Shiro, first for a quick shower to get off the blood, and then to his cell.

Sendak’s thumb brushes over his scar. His teeth are bared, tipped with galra blood.

_“Good.”_

  
-


	2. Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where I start tagging.  
> Warnings: abuse, some Sendak hurting Shiro, some... non-con.

-

If another prisoner looks at him, he glares. It's easy to tell which ones are new; they peer through bars of the holding cells, or stare as he passes, but soon enough they become like the rest. They keep their gazes averted, not wanting to incur his... 'wrath.' 

Shiro knew about the rumours, that those he disliked enough could be next chosen to fight in the arena, toys for the Champion. The arm didn't help; they whispered he was going to be another of Zarkon's warriors, that he was almost broken by the druids, the arm was proof. It hurt, their terror, their distrust, but ultimately, it was essential for his own survival. That no-one would try to get close to him, befriend him. 

He can't grow to care about any of them, couldn't worry about them; he was already plagued by Matt's terrified face in his dreams. Was he dead? Were both of the Holts dead? Matt had been sent to a labour colony, but what did that mean to an Empire that slaughtered millions? Were they all going to die?

It was enough to think about two people, day in, day out, when he wasn't consumed with adrenaline and fear in the arena, or with the witch, or Sendak... he might go insane with weight of it all on his conscience.

But that's what they wanted, and he wouldn't. He wouldn't give them that. 

He's put back in his cell, where he falls into fitful sleep on the hard floor, and is awoken, too early, by a pair of guards-

-and a druid.

"Get up," one of the guards orders, holding out cuffs. Shiro's muscles ache with over-exertion and fatigue as he struggles up, putting out his wrists and watching the druid warily. 

He hisses when the other guard butts him with his weapon; the muzzle drives into a fresh cut on his back, his muscles clenching in response. 

"Move." 

Shiro's steps are slow, shaky. It's not just his tiredness, but the black fear clawing at his stomach. He couldn't see the witch, not now, not like this. The guards are impatient with him, and he vaguely remembers he should be the Champion right now. 

But they're not going to see the witch- _thank god, thank god-_ but instead stop in front of a cell. It's like all the others, and Shiro is puzzled. 

It opens, and the druid finally speaks.

"Champion, strip."

Shiro is frozen at the order. _Here? Why?_

The guard unlocks his cuffs and growls, "obey, prisoner." 

Shiro looks at the prisoner in the cell, feeling his blood run cold and his limbs numb.

They couldn’t make him do it. He wouldn’t do it. He _couldn’t._

The galra in the cell has the same desolately fearful look that resonates in his heart, clawing at the endless grey walls and purple lights. They’re wearing the same black suit that kept them from freezing in the metal cells, the shirt tattered from claws and weapons.

"Champion, _strip."_

Shiro automatically takes off his shirt, dread in his bones at the tone of the druid, and then struggles to remove his arms from the jumpsuit. It was so strange, the way it clung to the skin, and so difficult to remove. 

He manages to get it down to his waist when the druid says, "you too, traitor," and that was it. It was too much. Shiro refuses to obey any further.

He wouldn’t help their captors to further torture them. This was different to those he faced in the arena. They were fighters, trained to maim and kill for entertainment. His reward was the knowledge others didn’t have to suffer a terrible fate at their hands.

He was not about to inflict such a thing on someone else.

One of the guards hits him with their gun, and while Shiro stumbles into the cell, he otherwise doesn’t move, legs trembling as he remains still, standing over the other prisoner. They’re curling up, protecting themselves, breathing short and panicked. The air in the cell is cold. 

“Leave them for awhile,” the druid rasps from behind, but Shiro shakes his head.

 “I won’t,” he states, “I won’t do it.”

 He cries out as he’s jabbed, body convulsing with powerful electric shocks. The galra prisoner’s golden eyes widen, in both hope and fear, a few scant tears welling and soaking into their fur. Their ears are flattened with distress.

 “You will,” the druid says, and Shiro shivers as magic washes over him, choking his vision, his throat; he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see.

 But what they wanted was worse.

 “I’d rather _die,”_ he wheezes, trying to ignore the terror shaking his bones, begging him to submit, “I _won’t.”_

 The druid hisses, and Shiro struggles not to cry out as the blackness blocks out all sensation, consuming him entirely.

 -

 Shiro’s surprised to wake up, head heavy and throbbing with pain at both temples, mouth dry with thirst.

 He’s not surprised that he’s chained against a wall; a familiar wall, in a familiar room. 

 With a familiar face staring at him across it, mouth curled in disappointment.

 “Commander,” he rasps out. His tongue feels furry, heavy in his mouth. Sendak's heavy face is unreadable, and he takes slow, deliberate steps towards where Shiro is restrained. 

 “Champion,” Sendak replies, the light from his arm hurting Shiro’s eyes, he squints, looks away. His jumpsuit is still half open, hanging around his waist. 

 A scream bursts from his throat, short-lived and haggard, as glowing claws slash across his torso, carving deep, bloody lines into his skin. His breathing comes ragged, harsh.

 “The druids tell me you refused to co-operate in their new test,” Sendak says, “is this true?”

 “Test?” Shiro replies roughly, “ha…”

 He hisses, but does not scream, as Sendak sinks a single, sharp claw into his shoulder. It builds in his chest, and he writhes as Sendak lightly moves it around; it only made it worse.

 “I admit, I find them as distasteful, but it is not my place to question,” Sendak tells him, “and it is not yours to refuse.”

 He rips the finger out, bringing away a bloody chunk, and Shiro tastes coppery blood as he bites into his lips.

 “You will participate in these tests, Champion, or suffer.”

 Shiro remains silent, thoughts scattered to the wind by the pain. It never got any easier.

 “I… won’t…”

 Sendak snarls, and backhands him across the face. His teeth slice open his lip further, and blood dribbles down his chin.

 “You know better than to defy me,” Sendak growls, gripping Shiro’s chin in glowing claws.

 Shiro growls back, spitting into Sendak’s face. It’s a foolish, foolish move, but even know, he needs to be the Champion. It’s never-ending.

 Sendak’s eye narrows as Shiro’s blood and saliva soak into his fur, and slowly, he wipes it off with his real hand, staring at the smear. He looks back up at Shiro, yellow eye blazing, and smiles.

 There’s a blinding flash, and then-

 -bone breaking-

 -flesh tearing-

 -heart stopping-

  _\- PAIN._

 Shiro can’t even hear himself screaming, only knowing of it when his lungs jerk and choke for desperate gasps of air, throat hoarse. Sendak watches him struggle to breathe, and punches him in the stomach with his weapon arm, driving every last bit of oxygen from his lungs.

 Black spots fill his vision, growing and fusing like mould, and Shiro wheezes, trying to stay conscious.

  _Why did he want to? It hurt._

 “...ampion, very disappointed.”

 Shiro gurgles, and spits out a mixture of bile and blood, right onto the metal floor, gasping. Sendak is still speaking, but it’s hard to make out the words.

 “... he’s … perating. Yes… will allow…”

 Shiro hears a dull click either side of him, and then he’s falling, arms moving too late to stop himself from landing face first in his own fluids. He struggles to stand, but he’s saved it by two guards, grasping him by the shoulders. Sendak grasps his face.

 “We shall try again after you’ve rested, hm?” he hisses.

 Shiro averts his eyes. His throat is burning, muscles still involuntarily twitching and shaking from the shocks earlier, and his prisoner garb is soaked with his own blood.

 “Take him to his cell,” he orders the guards, and even as he’s dragged away, Shiro feels enough relief that his eyes slip closed to rest.

 -

Shiro is woken up, as always, with sudden banging, and the door hissing open to reveal his guards. It’s his first meal of the day.

When he first arrived, lumped in with the others, he was given one meal between sleeping. Strange, solid food that tasted bitter, served as a grey block, with a small container of water. Sometimes they would purposely not give the group cells enough, just to watch them fight over it. If you tried to share, they would drag you out and take turns jabbing you with their electric weapons.

 But now he was the Champion, under the eye of the witch and Sendak, in his own solitary cell where he was fed two, even three meals of strange grey blocks and water between sleeping hours.

Today, the water he’s given tastes off.

It’s not stagnant, not still, but it has an unpleasant, bitter tang that makes him gag. It confuses him; he was so thirsty, it should be sweet, delicious.

Soon there are guards at his cell door, hauling him away to the Wall, but to his surprise, they don’t immediately chain him up.

“Strip,” one of them says bluntly, “and be quick about it.”

Being bare meant nothing good; his body was littered in scars, from head to toe. And the arena had only given him so many.

The rest were at the whim of his captors.

Once he's naked, they chain him up, leave him there. 

It doesn’t take long to find out what was in the water. He doesn’t have to touch himself, he can’t even move his hands, but regardless, heat fills his belly, stirring pleasure he hadn’t felt in a very long time. He has to remember to breathe, slowly, trying to ignore it.

Shiro had forgotten. The time he had to himself was spent conserving what little energy he had left, sleeping, healing. He had no desire, no need.

It was the one thing the galra hadn’t cared about, until now.

The door opens and in comes a pair of druids, and to his horror, Sendak. Of course.

The druids are holding small boxes, silently setting them down, and the galra simply waits and watches, eyes flicking to Shiro’s erection. He smiles.

From the first box comes what looks like a rod, coloured the same as everything else; black, grey and purple. Shiro lets out a tiny hiss as it lights up; that same violet druid light that only meant suffering. Shiro didn’t ask them what the device was; the way Sendak was smiling at him only boded ill, and he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of the question.

He could guess, though, and it turns out his guess is accurate.

It goes right onto his dick, encasing it entirely, and all thoughts of not giving them what they wanted are thrown out the window. He can barely think as his arousal turns from frustrated and strained to overwhelming. He thrashes, moans and growls involuntarily tearing from his lungs as the device massages, squeezes his cock, faster than his hand ever could.

It doesn’t take long for him to come, muscles locking and a few tears straggling down his face as he orgasms. He falls as far forward as he can, limp, panting as the druids take the device from his dick. There’s murmuring between them, but Shiro isn’t listening, the blood in his ears roaring, and his face burning with arousal and shame.

“Too viscous,” the druid states, “the other one, then.”

Shiro’s head hangs as he pants, body shuddering with pent-up pleasure, but his curiosity is overwhelming as the druids open the other box. The next device makes him cry out; it’s smaller, but he can see teeth-like extrusions on it, and when the druid comes near he writhes with fear.

He meets Sendak’s eyes. The Galra’s mouth is open, tongue wetting his lips.

The new collector latches on to the head of his penis, but it doesn’t stimulate, not like the first, and Shiro’s heart beats ever faster, leaping, as the druid reaches out and-

“Let me,” Sendak orders suddenly, forcefully, and after a moment, the druid dutifully steps away.

Shiro begins to tremble, violently, as the galra commander steps close, face almost blank, both eyes fixed on Shiro’s face.

A clawed finger touches Shiro’s dick, dragging down, and Shiro’s breath hitches at the agonising pleasure, brain hazing over with it.

He bucks up into Sendak’s hand. He freezes as, slowly, a self-satisfied, wicked smile stretches the Galra’s face, leaning close to breathe fetid air onto Shiro’s.

“I think this is the first time you’ve wanted me to touch you, Champion,” he purrs, and Shiro’s mouth curls into a snarl.

“No,” he grounds out, but Sendak runs his other, larger hand along his chest, along his belly, before cupping Shiro’s hip in crushing fingers.

“Don’t lie to me, Champion.”

Shiro’s muscles spasm as Sendak wraps the rest of his hand around Shiro’s dick, his breath shuddering. Sendak watches him closely, his one real eye narrowed, tracking his face with hunger. His lips twitch, baring fangs, excitedly, when Shiro gasps, twisting his hands around in their restraints. They cut painfully into his wrists, but it’s nothing against the heat coursing through his body, a temporary distraction.

Soon enough, he’s coming, crying out with a strangled groan.

He drops his gaze to follow Sendak’s; the device pulses, with each movement siphoning his semen into a separate compartment.

Sendak smiles, stepping away to let a druid take it.

“Is that satisfactory?” he asks of them.

“For now it should be,” one says, separating the device. Shiro feels faint as they leave it on Sendak’s workbench, along with a half-dozen empty collectors. Sendak picks one up with his flesh hand, smirking as he examines it.

“Keep me informed,” Sendak orders, and the druids nod their heads.

The door opens, closes, and then they are alone.

  
-

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, this isn't actually going to be about my sort of ideas about what Shiro experienced in the canon timeline
> 
> I mean, it sort of is, but within this AU, which departs drastically from it from this point onward. I'll update the tags/summary when I add the next chapter, but yeah. 
> 
> thanks for reading this short starting chapter :>
> 
> yanderayy.tumblr.com


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